by Yangsze Choo
I’d never heard my mother so assertive and, frankly, it shocked me. I shook my head. “It’s not an option for me.”
“Then make it an option. Don’t be so proud!”
It wasn’t pride that was holding me back, but I could never tell her.
“Is there someone else?” she said sharply.
A pause. “Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Ming.” I studied her covertly. How much did she want Robert as a son-in-law?
“Oh. Ming.” My mother gave a sigh of relief. “You know that’s not going to happen. He’s engaged.” Still, she gave me a searching look. Did she suspect?
At dinner, my mother and I watched each other warily. The prospect of her confessing her debts to my stepfather filled me with dread, but she seemed far more concerned about my missing a chance with Robert. I read the suspicion on her face; she didn’t quite believe I was still hung up on Ming, yet not a word passed our lips because my stepfather was there. He sat, oppressively silent, while we picked at our food. You could have cut the air with a knife. I glanced at Shin’s empty seat at the table too many times and when I caught my mother’s eye, dropped mine guiltily. This was no good. I’d give myself away at this rate. So I went to bed, praying that morning would come quickly.
* * *
But what came instead were dreams. Not the sunlit place where I always met Yi, but other strange visions. Perhaps I’d been worrying too much about the events of the last few days, because I was at a railway interchange with many platforms and corridors and stairs that connected below the tracks. It was like a reverse image of the Ipoh Railway Station. That was white and grand, but here all was dark, narrow, and grimy. Dusk was falling, a blue hush, and crowds of silent, wraithlike figures were rushing here and there. All I knew was that I must choose a train soon, or be left behind.
The people themselves were indistinct. If I stared hard, they dissolved like smoke, but as soon as I glanced away they were back, bustling around on some important business. Walking over to the edge of the platform, I peered at the railway tracks. They ran away like crooked ladders into the distance. A pair of opposing signs pointed to Hulu and Hilir, meaning upstream and downstream in Malay, though that made no sense in a railway station. The track labeled Hilir made me think that far away, at the other end, I might find Yi. It was a wink of a thought that I dismissed, though I had the feeling that if I called Yi right now, he’d appear in that same noiseless, frightening way.
Sooty smoke drifted over the platform as a train rattled in. People hurried to get on and I hesitated, wondering if I’d be trapped here forever if I didn’t make a decision soon. A spare old man—a foreigner with light eyes and a grey, scrubby beard—made his way across the platform. The edges of the dark suit he wore seemed to fray and blur as though it was unraveling into the falling dusk. His mouth moved as he pointed at my traveling basket.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
Still no sound, like a radio that had gone silent, but I could tell from the careful, exaggerated movements of his lips that he was trying to speak to me.
Put it back, he mouthed, nodding at my basket. And I knew, in that inexplicable way of dreams, that he meant the remaining finger—the thumb from Pei Ling’s package.
“Where? The hospital?”
But he only smiled. Thank you for everything. Then he was passing me, climbing onto the train.
“Wait!” I cried, running after him.
He turned and looked at me genially. Courteously. I stared into his eyes, those light-colored eyes, and realized that they had slit, vertical pupils, like the eyes of a cat. Horrified, I took a step back.
The old man bowed his head. I am going now. He put his hands together in a gesture of apology and gratitude, and I saw then that his hands were intact with all ten fingers. Steam and gritty smoke billowed. There was only the scream of the train whistle, the deep vibration of the tracks, and a greyness that descended on everything.
* * *
The train whistle had become a caw, the harsh croak of a crow walking up and down the ledge outside my window. Pressing my hands against my eyes, it occurred to me that besides meaning “upstream” and “downstream,” the words hulu hilir also meant “beginning and end” in Malay. I sat up in the morning hush. It was a dream, nothing more. Or was it? One way or another, I’d never wanted to talk to the dead.
Put it back, he’d said. Shivering in the cool morning air, I picked my way over to my traveling basket. I’d packed the lists of names to show Koh Beng as well as the severed thumb, the one from Pei Ling’s mysterious package. Today I’d go to Batu Gajah and replace it among all the other specimens in that pathology storeroom, and put an end, hopefully, to all this.
But that’s not what I told my mother. “I’m heading back to Ipoh.”
She’d nodded without comment, though her eyes were doubtful. She was still worried about Robert. But I wasn’t planning to see Robert again—only Shin. I had to tell him about my dream. Remembering the old foreigner’s left hand, with its five intact fingers, I was certain that we’d done right in burying the finger in Dr. MacFarlane’s grave.
* * *
When I arrived at the hospital in Batu Gajah, it was half past eight in the morning. A little early for the crowd that had gathered, milling around in front of the main entrance.
“What happened?” I asked a middle-aged woman in a yellow samfoo.
“Accident. Police won’t let us in, even though I told them I had an appointment and the poor fellow’s dead already.”
Alarm shivered through me. “Who died?”
“A young man who worked here. A hospital orderly, they said.”
Shin! Terrified, I ran forward. “Let me through, please!”
A Malay constable was on guard, and I struggled frantically through the crowd, their irritation changing to murmurs of interest and pity.
“My brother’s an orderly here,” I said breathlessly to him. “Do you know who died?”
“I don’t know the name, but if you’re family, I’ll take you through. This way, to the European wing.”
Dry-mouthed, I ran after him. We crossed over to a part of the hospital I’d never been to. Around the corner of a half-timbered two-story building, we approached a knot of people. They were looking up at the roof, then at the grassy area next to the building.
“That’s where it happened.” The constable nodded, eyes on a tall Sikh officer who was putting away a notebook. “Captain Singh, she wants to know if it’s her brother.”
“What’s his name?” His eyes met mine in a penetrating, amber gaze.
“Lee Shin,” I said, holding my breath. “He’s an orderly here.”
He glanced at his notebook. “No. It was a Mr. Wong Yun Kiong.”
My knees sagged. Thank goodness! But the name was horribly familiar. “Do you mean Y. K. Wong?”
“Did you know him?”
What should I say? As I hesitated, someone brushed past me.
“Inspector. I need to talk to you.” It was William Acton, haggard and red-eyed, as though he’d been awake for hours.
The inspector turned, both men ignoring me.
“What is it, Mr. Acton? I thought you’d gone home.”
“I’ve patients to see. But I just remembered something.”
“According to your statement, a tile falling from the roof crushed Mr. Wong’s skull.”
“That’s right. But it wasn’t from the roof.”
We all glanced up instinctively.
“I didn’t realize it till afterwards, because it happened so fast. But there wasn’t enough height.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it was like a shadow dropping. But I’m almost certain that the tile came from the second floor and not the roof.”
There was a pause. “This is a very serious charge, Mr. Acton. Are you saying that someone dropped a tile from the second-story window?”
It was possible, I thought, studying the build
ing. The windows were tall and gracious, open to allow air to flow through. Acton hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Could you swear to it? It was still dark.”
“I’m not sure that I could,” he rubbed his face, “but that’s my feeling.”
“Feelings matter less than facts.” Animosity crackled between the two men. Had they met before?
“I’m merely passing what information I can to the police.”
“Of course, we’ll go up and check the second floor,” said the inspector smoothly. “But apparently it was locked at the time. These are administrative offices, aren’t they?”
“Yes, though a number of staff have keys.”
“Thank you, Mr. Acton. I’ll keep it in mind.”
William Acton hesitated, then turned away. I hurried after him to ask what had happened, hoping that the inspector had forgotten about me. Why had Y. K. Wong died?
“Louise,” Acton said as I caught up. “Why do you always show up when I least expect you?”
I began a halting explanation about my brother, but he wasn’t really listening. “The first time I met you was in the pathology storeroom, before that little nurse fell down the stairs. Did you know she died this weekend?”
Horrified, I shook my head.
“You were there at the party, the night Nandani disappeared. And now this morning again. Are you the angel of death, Louise?”
“Of course not!”
“But you know about the river in my dreams. Tell me, have you seen any dead people lately?”
He couldn’t possibly know about Shin and me going to dig up Dr. MacFarlane’s grave. My heart was pounding unsteadily. Acton gave a humorless smile. “I’m sorry. I’m in a foul mood today. How about a drink some time—how much do you charge for call-outs?”
Taken aback, I could only fix an automatic smile on my face. The same blank professional look I used at work. To him, I was simply a bit of skirt to take his mind off things. But two could play at this game and there were questions I wanted to ask. “Did you really see something fall from the second floor?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do,” I said earnestly. “I think that instincts matter.”
He sighed. “There might have been someone on the second floor. Though why on earth would they chuck a roof tile out of a window?”
Why indeed? Though Shin’s words, I’ll kill him, echoed uncomfortably in my head. Of course he’d been angry after hearing that Y. K. Wong had locked me in the pathology storeroom. But he’d never do such a thing—or would he? I thought of Shin’s silent fury, the darkness in my stepfather that I’d always feared.
“Are you all right, Louise?” said Acton. We’d stopped walking and people passing were beginning to give us looks.
“Did you know Y. K. Wong, the man who was killed?” I asked. Should I tell the inspector about my suspicious run-ins with him, or would it invite trouble?
“Not really. I saw him around.” He rubbed his jaw, his complexion grey and papery. “In some ways it would be better if it weren’t a freakish accident; if there were a logical reason for him dying.”
“What do you mean?”
Acton made a nervous grimace. “Just a thought. A peculiar fancy. Have you ever felt that things have rearranged themselves a little too conveniently?”
My stomach clenched. This was exactly what Yi had said to me in that deserted train station, that the fifth one of us was rearranging events. Everything’s out of order.
“As if fate changes to suit you?”
It was a stab in the dark, but Acton looked astonished. Then he laughed grimly, “What an extraordinary girl you are, Louise. But you understand. Perhaps I knew you in another life.”
Just then Koh Beng came up from behind me. Startled, I wondered how much of our conversation he’d overheard, but he simply said, “Matron wants to see you, sir.”
“Right.” Acton glanced around. “Don’t leave,” he said to me as he crossed over to the next building.
I’d no intention of obeying him, though I waited a few minutes for the coast to clear. Koh Beng lingered. “What are you doing here, talking to Mr. Acton?”
“I ran into him when I was talking to the police about the accident.”
“The police? Did you tell them about the fingers going missing?”
“No, should I have?”
Koh Beng gave me a sideways glance. Today he was different, nervous and not cheerful at all, as if the death of his colleague had shaken him up. “Did you bring the lists that were in Pei Ling’s package? Remember, I said I’d look at them for you.” As I fumbled in my basket, he added, “And what did he mean earlier, about someone on the second floor?”
“He thinks he saw a figure there.”
“Did he tell the police?”
“I’m not sure if they believed him.” I pulled the lists out. Koh Beng glanced eagerly over my shoulder.
“Well, this proves that Y. K. Wong was selling fingers,” he said. “They’re all patients who came into contact with him.”
“How do you know?”
Koh Beng shrugged. “I keep an eye on things. People in hospital are worried and vulnerable; they’re all looking for some assurance. Look, this chap here was definitely a gambler.” He pointed at the list in my hand. “Gamblers will buy anything; don’t you remember the craze for burung ontong nests?”
Burung ontong was a small bird that built an inconspicuous nest in high and inaccessible places. If a nest was put in a rice bin, it was said to bring great fortune to its owner. There’d been a mania for them not too long ago, with prices reaching ten or even twenty-five Straits dollars for a good specimen. Compared to locating a tiny nest, I supposed selling off pathology specimens was far easier.
“But Y. K. Wong didn’t seem like he’d be good at soft-soaping superstitious people and selling charms.” He was too stiff, too awkward, I thought, frowning. “I’d better turn these in to Dr. Rawlings or Mr. Acton.”
“What for? He’s dead now.”
“There are still specimens missing, and I don’t want them to suspect Shin, since he was the last person in charge of the storeroom.”
A flicker crossed Koh Beng’s face. “I’ll do it for you.” He held out his hand for the papers.
I stared at him. And realized what a fool I’d been. I’d been looking for a pattern all this time, but I hadn’t seen this one. Why hadn’t I paid more attention?
“That’s all right.” I edged away. To my dismay, the walkway was deserted.
“Where are you going?” He was smiling at me, a tight, angry smile.
“Shin’s expecting me,” I lied.
“That’s too bad.” He seized my arm, pinning it behind my back. A stabbing pain in my side. “If you scream, I’ll cut you again,” he said in my ear. Panicked, I couldn’t see what he held in his left hand, only felt that it was very sharp.
“Keep walking,” he whispered, as we marched in a grotesque, loverlike embrace, his right arm locked around my shoulders. Frantically, I looked around.
“Is it the lists you want? I’ll give them to you.”
In answer, he jabbed me again, slicing through the side of my dress. Then we were outside, crossing the damp grass. Still nobody. In despair I found myself frog-marched towards one of the outbuildings.
“It’s a pity you figured it out,” said Koh Beng conversationally. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this. What made you suspect me?”
I shook my head, but he cut me again. Tears ran down my face. “Tell the truth now,” he said.
“You said Pei Ling was a good friend of yours. But she told me she didn’t have any male friends. Not anyone she could ask to get the package for her.”
“That’s all?” We were still walking, not into the outbuilding but behind it. I dragged my feet, but he yanked me along.
“She said the salesman had a friend whom she didn’t like. I thought that was Y. K. Wong, but it was you all the time.” I remembered how Pei Ling had bla
nched when she’d first met Shin, telling me that he was friends with someone she didn’t like.
“Yes, Y. K. was troublesome, digging for evidence to tattle to Dr. Rawlings. Too bad he always rubbed people the wrong way.”
“Was it worth it, selling body parts?” I looked around desperately. We were so far away from the main hospital now!
“It was good while it lasted. Though that idiot Chan Yew Cheung had to go and lose a finger in a dance hall, of all places. Still in a bottle that could be traced from the hospital. He kept it because the specimen number was a lucky 168.”
The numbers, I thought in despair. It was all about numbers.
“I thought he’d bring in more business but he tried to blackmail me instead. And his girlfriend was no better.”
“You pushed Pei Ling down the stairs.”
“It’s your fault, really. The two of you stood right outside the cafeteria, stupidly discussing a package that Yew Cheung had hidden. I was sure it was the evidence he’d kept against me.”
Poor, miserable Pei Ling. She’d only been concerned about getting her love letters back.
“I realized then that she had to go.”
In the uproar over the discovery of Pei Ling’s horrific fall, I remembered how Koh Beng had been the only person who kept eating. So busy pretending to be normal that he forgot to look surprised. I felt sick.
“How much does Shin know?” Koh Beng asked.
“Not much,” I said, desperately trying to hedge my bets, “But he’s suspicious.”
“Just when I thought everything was settled. Give me the lists. And that glass bottle—I saw it when you took the papers out.”
I’d no choice but to hand over everything, including the preserved thumb. “Did you kill the salesman, too?”
“No. It was just luck that he fell into a ditch.” He frowned, thinking. My head was pounding, my chest tight with panic. He was heavier than me, though not much taller. In a fight, the only advantage I’d have was surprise. Throwing open a door, Koh Beng forced me up a flight of disused stairs.
“What happened to Y. K. Wong this morning? Was that chance, too?” I said, trying to delay him.